


The Wrong Portal, But The Right Man

by urisarang



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Chocolate Box Exchange, Crossover, Ensemble Cast, Fantasy and Sci fi, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, No Beta We Die Like the Author's hope of being normal, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Alternating, POV Aragorn | Estel, POV Sam Wilson, Sam Wilson Thinks He's Funny, Sam Wilson in The Lord of The Rings, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Serious but still fun, Strangers to Friends, and he's right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29199015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urisarang/pseuds/urisarang
Summary: Sam had been dead for five years, though he didn't know it--because he was dead, and that's how being dead works--but he's back alive now.  And Strange is telling him he has a plan, but he doesn't have time to explain it past the basics.Magic portals, lots of allies, the chaos of an ongoing battle.That's fine.  Sam is good at improvising, has to be considering his choice of teammates for the last few years.  So when that portal opens he doesn't hesitate--just flies right on through ready for anything.Well, almost everything.((The one where Strange messes up and Sam Wilson ends up in Middle Earth playing adifferenthigh stakes game of keep the fancy all-powerful jewelry away from the bad guy))(((This is a little more serious than the summery implies but still fun!)))
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Sam Wilson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	The Wrong Portal, But The Right Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/gifts).



> Well hello there! 
> 
> I was browsing the prompts and kept skipping over the crossover tag as I don't ever write those--but I took a chance and looked at yours and what do you know? A plot bunny came right out and bit me! It wouldn't let go so I wrote this in a binge instead of sleeping. It was an absolute blast to write and I had more fun with it than I thought I would. Honestly grateful you thought of the two of them--cause I never would have and I wouldn't have had so much fun writing this.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it for you. :)

Before Strange had opened up the portal he had warned Sam to be ready for anything. The plan, as much as it could be called a plan, called for a thousand portals to open up and take Thanos by surprise. They couldn’t waste any time and would be arriving in the middle of a battle so Sam didn’t hesitate. He just gripped his guns in his hands and flew head first the second the portal opened--ready for anything.

Well, almost anything. 

He thought that Strange had said the battle was to be fought on Earth again, but wherever he is? It sure isn’t anywhere he’s ever been. First of all? There is some giant white _castle_ , straight out of a fantasy novel--not that he reads those or anything--surrounded by the greenest fields he’s ever seen. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

At least at first glance.

But then he saw the unmistakable signs of battle. Black scorch marks mar the white walls, there are broken gates--and then there were the bodies. So many bodies. Both human and those distinctly _not_. He didn’t know what they were, but it was obvious that whatever those creatures were that they had attacked the castle and the people had paid a high price defending their home.

A sound of a horn has Sam turning his head and that’s when he sees the gate. He’s never been religious, never really not either. But that gate? The twisted black metal walls that stretch up over a hundred feet in the air between two mountains?

Just what he would picture as the gates to hell. 

It doesn’t help that dark storm clouds hand over the gates, whereas it is clear skies over the castle. Almost as if it is a battle between the light and dark. A battle that the light is losing if the state of the castle and the encroaching storm clouds are anything to judge by.

Sam turns back to look at Strange’s portal still shimmering in midair--he could go back. He has a job to do there, people counting on him. This isn’t his fight, whatever magical screw up happened to bring him here? He doesn’t belong. 

But he turns back to where he had heard the sounds of the horn. A rallying call for those who remain. A small group of people marsh forward on foot. Too small a group to have any hopes against whatever is behind the gate. 

Maybe it wasn’t a mistake. Maybe this is where he’s meant to be. He would be one man among a thousand more fighting Thanos. Now, he knows that sometimes one man is all the difference it takes, but when he looks down at that small group of people marching towards certain death he can’t help but think they need him more.

Besides, Strange isn’t the kind of guy to make a mistake like this. Not when the stakes were so high. Maybe this is some weird multiverse thing or something. Sam doesn’t know a damn thing about magic and he likes it that way. 

So with a shrug, Sam turns his back on the portal and flies towards the group of people. Even if it was a mistake, he can’t just leave them. It’s just not in his nature to ignore someone who needs help, and they look like they might need him a lot more than the Avengers would.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A low roar of sound approaches from the south, Aragorn turns his head and is met with a sight he cannot explain. He’s seen all manner of flying creatures during his long life spent wandering middle earth--but he’s never seen anything like this one.

It has black wings that seem to both catch the light and allow it to pass through at the same time. Not unlike a butterfly’s wings--but wings of that sort could not hope to support a creature of that size. The body is that of a man, though none the likes of which Aragorn has ever seen. 

He can see that its skin is a deep umber as it approaches. A dark shade of brown rather than the black of its wings and body. It approaches from Minas Tirith and not from the black gates of Mordor--that alone gives Aragon pause. He looks to Gandolf but he appears to be as much at a loss as Aragorn is.

“Is that _Ainur_?” Aragorn asks, what else but an angel could come sweeping down from the heavens to aid them in their darkest hour? Gandolf squints up at the creature but shakes his head.

“That is no _Ainur_ , nor have _I_ have ever seen its like,” Gandolf admits in a soft voice, but his eyes twinkle when he turns back to Aragon. “But I sense no evil within it.” 

Aragorn tightens his grip on his sheathed sword just the same. He trusts Gandolf with his life, but he cannot risk being careless. Their group stops as the creature flies in closer, Aragorn waves his hand for his men to lower their weapons. He walks out from the group, one hand on his sword, the other raised in greeting as the creature lands.

“Be you friend or foe?” He calls out, the creature raises its hands in peace.

“Judging by the looks of you and the looks of them?” The creature gestures its head towards the orcs that line the gate. “Pretty sure I’m a friend.” 

It speaks in common, but the speech is strange. Unlike any dialect he’s heard before and yet he can understand the meaning behind those strange words. It smells of magic, though not one he is familiar with. 

“What manner of creature are you?” Aragorn asks, the creature lets out a sound of laughter.

“I’m just a guy--like you, I imagine,” Aragorn raises an eyebrow and tilts his head at the creature’s wings. “Oh, these? They’re like not a part of me or anything. They’re not attached, they can come off. I’m uh. . .” The creature--no, the man--trails off then scrubs a hand over his face.

“Right, swords, bows, armor--you’re not going to understand a word if I say _flight suit_ or _solar powered_ are you?” Whatever magic at work allowing them to understand one another fails at those two words. A vague impression of armor and sunlight crosses Aragorn’s mind but he struggles to make any sense of it. 

“Not _Ainur_ , though more than a man. Whatever you are we are grateful you have chosen to answer the call. To aid us in our time of need.” Aragorn says offering a bow to the man. “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn and heir to house Isuldir.”

“Sam Wilson, though they call me Falcon back home if we’re exchanging titles,” The man who calls himself Sam says. Gandolf catches Aragorn’s eye, how poetic that another unexpected Sam would come in aid of Frodo. 

This is not the work of chance, but fate. 

“Well met Sam, son of Wil,” Aragorn’s keen ears can make out Sam muttering under his breath. He doesn’t know what a _Thor_ is or why he is being compared to one, but the tone is fond, if not exasperated. "We march on the Black Gates to bid Frodo time to destroy the ring. This is not a quest to take lightly. The fate of Middle Earth rests upon our ability to keep Sauron’s eye focused on us and no other."

"Suicide mission against overwhelming forces where we are nothing more than a distraction?" Sam puts his hands on his hips and his face breaks out into a wide smile. "Sounds like just my kind of thing," he claps his hands together. "So any game plan or the usual fly in by the seat of my pants and wing it?"

Aragorn has to pause for a moment to parse Sam's meaning but once he does his face too breaks out in a smile. 

"As the only one of us with wings, I can think of no one else better to 'wing it' as you say." Sam barks out a surprised sound of laughter.

"He's got jokes! Ain't nobody told me kings would be having jokes!" He tilts his head to the side. "Then again Steve was always sneaking in snark when everyone would least suspect it. I can dig it. Alright so y'all do your thing and I'll do mine. How will we know when For-Frodo? How will we know when he's done whatever it is he has to do?"

"Oh, you will know," Gandolf says with a chuckle. "Within the ring lies Sauron's very essence. Once it is destroyed his eye will fall, as will his armies.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dude with the beard, the ‘too tall to be a walking stick’ staff, and the billowing white robes is giving Sam serious wizard vibes. Hopefully, after all this is over, and they’re still standing he’ll get a chance to ask. Might be his only option home since he let Strange’s portal close, but now is not the time.

He just gives them a nod and takes back off to the skies flying towards the black gates. He hasn’t seen any tech, all the people down there were in medieval armor with swords, axes, and bows. He shrugs his shoulders popping his twin guns into his hands from their wrist mounts. At least he’ll have the advantage of firepower--at least until he runs out of bullets that is.

Sounds like a problem for future Sam, he thinks with a shrug.

Sam looks back to see the king, Aragorn, leading the charge towards the black gates. Now that’s the kind of leader Sam can respect. The first to go in and the last to give up. He sure hopes the guy manages to survive this, he seems like the kind of guy worth getting to know. 

And then the gates open up and out comes wave after wave of monsters. It makes a shiver crawl along Sam’s spine in memory of the fight they had in Wakanda--the one where they lost. 

The one where he died.

He’s already died once so what’s there left to be afraid of? Can’t really top that right? He gives himself a little prep talk before he’s extending his wings to their full 50-foot length. He doesn’t understand the fancy Wakana tech that goes into them but he sure is damn happy with them.

More style than the ones Stark made too--though he’d never say it to the man’s face. They might have ended up on opposite sides of The Accords, but even then Sam isn’t the kind of guy to hit a man where he hurts. 

His fashion sense.

T'Challa’s whole black on black thing is just more his style. Plus Sam knows how good he makes it look. He looks slick as hell in this getup, even Nat had given him an appreciative look or two.

Though now he must look like some sort of demon with his wings spread impossibly far as he hovers in mid-air. The first wave of creatures that poured out of the gate stop and stare at him, but the waves behind them just trample them into the ground. 

Brutal.

Sam shakes his head at their disregard for their own, that’s going to make it harder to shock and awe them into the defensive. He can do better than this. He looks around and spots a big guy. A really big guy, the kind that would make the Hulk look puny--and if that isn’t a horrible thought he doesn’t know what is. 

He takes careful aim and shoots the heavily armored beast through the eye slat in its helm. The gunshot echos off the mountains as the horde of creatures come to a stop in shock. One beat of silence, and then another before the giant creature is toppling backward. The impact of its weight hitting the ground, and a few unlucky smaller creatures, breaks the silence.

All at once, a light is on Sam. He raises his arm to block it on instinct but it doesn’t burn. But it feels. . .

It feels _wrong_ in a way he’s never felt before. His goggles adjust filtering out the light so that he can see, and he almost wishes he were still blinded. A great and terrible eye--it must be hundreds of feet across and made of fire?!

“Come on man, really?” Sam says with a sigh. “I thought they meant his figurative eye, not a literal flaming hell eye.” Well, at least he’s got its attention. 

Mission accomplished.

The army of creatures below him start a rallying cry once they see their leader--their god? Whatever the hell a giant floating eyeball that’s probably made out of pure hatred or something like that--whatever it is they seem to get a hold of themselves under its menacing gaze.

Below him, the group, led by Aragorn, come to a halt. They form a circle with him high above at its center. The red gaze of the evil eye thing doesn’t waver focused on their group. 

On and on more of the creatures, both large and small, come pouring out of the gate. Surrounding them, cutting off their retreat. 

Wherever Frodo is, Sam sure hopes he makes use of the opportunity they provide him. He doesn’t know how long they’ll be able to hold them off even with his guns. There are a whole hell of a lot more of them than he has bullets for. 

He better make them count.

~~~~~~~~~~

They will not last long is Aragorn’s first thought, but perhaps they can last long enough for Frodo. But then Sam does something unexpected. Has some weapon or magic that fells a troll from great distance. There was a sound but even his keen eyes could see no projectile nor magic that would cause such a beast to hit the ground.

Surrounded as they are they would not last one good rush, but they have a guardian angel above them raining death on all that would draw close. Each orc or goblin that steps out of line falls with a bang of sound, bleeding out from wounds with no visible cause. 

Like a beautiful angel of death.

His black wings are spread wide as if in challenge. As if he would stand alone against Sauron and all his might. Aragorn does not know what Sam is, but he is no ordinary man to brave the full focus of Sauron’s attention. That is something Aragorn knows to be overpowering from personal experience. 

And he’s doing all this on Aragorn’s word--out of the kindness of his heart having witnessed the destruction wrought upon Minas Tirith.

For long minutes Orcs and Goblins alike fall to their protector’s wraith, a bubble of impossible hope rises within Aragorn. They might make it past buying time for Frodo. The line may yet hold.

And then their angel, who claims to be a man, is calling out.

“I’m out,” Aragorn doesn’t understand the meaning until the next goblin that is pushed out by an orc and doesn’t fall with a bang. Sam lands down next to Aragorn, his face grim. “Don’t suppose you have a spare sword that _doesn’t_ weigh 50lbs I could use?”

Legolas hands over a thin sword of elven steel, no small gesture that. Sam takes it his expression turning surprised as he cuts it through the air experimentally. 

“This isn’t really my thing, more of a guns guy but I’ll try my best,” he admits with a shrug. 

“I could ask no more of you,” Aragorn bows his head and turns back to look at the brave souls around him. If nothing more, Aragorn will be happy to die alongside so many paragons of virtue and valor. The finest of men, dwarves, and elves--the very best that Middle Earth has to offer and he is to die fighting alongside them. 

There is no greater honor to be had. 

“For Frodo!” He shouts raising his sword high into the air, the men echoing his words. He turns back around and charges forward with a cry. They will buy enough time, he will see to it with his dying breath.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next ten minutes are the longest ten minutes of Sam’s entire life. He’s never used a sword before, he was never into playing knights as a kid. He always preferred playing search and rescue--but he’s hung around the Avengers long enough to pick up a thing or two from watching Nat and Clint spar.

Plus he has the advantage of mobility. Ain’t nobody but him flying so he’s able to swoop in and out without getting tagged. He’s not sure how the flight suit would hold up against being stabbed--but he doesn’t want to find out.

Things are--they’re not going great, but they’re holding their own. At least until there is an absolutely horrific screeching. It is legitimately blood-curdling. He whips his head to the side from where the sound came from and--

His blood? Consider it properly curdled. Not just a turn of phrase he never really got before. He gets it now. He wishes like hell he didn’t get it--if he could go back in time to when he thought that was just a saying? That would be great. 

But the _things_ that made those sounds?

Born of nightmares. Leathery black wings, gaping maws, and black cloaked riders--all focused on him. Their wings beat hard in the air as they head directly for Sam. He shoots up high into the air hoping to lead them off on a chase. Aragorn and his men will have to hold their own without him.

The monstrous flying beasts are surprisingly fast and nimble in the air. Sam has to dodge at the last second far more often than he likes as they gain on him. He’s faster--but there are more of them than him. Their attacks are coordinated, he can tell they are leading him into a trap but what can he do?

He curses himself for using all of his ammo.

If he had only known--yeah right like he could have known that on top of giant floating eyes made out of fire they’d have flying monsters too. 

It’s okay Sam, he tells himself. You’re good at improvising, one of the best. You can do this. He leads them on only to stop and drop out of the air suddenly as he turns his wings off. 

“Bet you can’t do that!” He calls out with a laugh as two of them are unable to stop their momentum and crash into each other. He changes direction, like only someone with powered wings can, and shoots up running his sword across the exposed midsection of one of the fliers as it tumbles.

His wrist aches with the force, it’s not easy to cut through whatever their hide is made of. 

Okay so, cutting up a monster is a lot grosser than just shooting one he’s come to find out. Zero out of ten, wouldn’t recommend. Plus it’s a lot more work. He’s tired, exhausted really. Unlike Steve he’s just a regular guy, he’s not made for long periods of hand to hand combat.

He needs a break.

Too bad there are still seven--SEVEN more of them on his tail. Sometimes it’s hard being one of the good guys, but it’s what he’s made for. It’s a part of who he is, ain’t nothing going to change that. 

He outmaneuvers them time and time again but he’s getting slower. Wearing down. There are five left, but that is five too many. He’s not sure he’ll be able to dodge out of their next trap so easily. 

If at all.

So it is a welcome surprise when bright red light floods the air. The beasts chasing him halt and shriek--as do their riders. Sam knows he should take the opportunity for what it is, but he hovers midair transfixed on the eye. The light of its gaze sweeps towards the volcano--of course, there is a volcano--next to it. 

The flying creatures all move to fly towards the volcano as one. Following the unspoken command of the eye--but whatever it was that Frodo had to do? Sam is pretty damn sure he did it. The tower that holds up the flaming eye begins to crumble and collapse. 

It’s already too late.

The flying creatures falter in their flight as their riders shriek and wail. One by one they sort of pop into smoke and dissolve. Riderless the creatures fly away, having no interest in toying with Sam without being commanded to. 

Thank God.

Sam flies back to where he had left Aragorn’s group and he watches as the ground splits and breaks apart around them. He’s worried at first but then he realizes the cracks in the ground surround them keeping the monsters back. He’s not sure if it is the work of the wizard looking dude, how this world works, or just plain good luck--but either way, he’s grateful. He’s not sure he has any more fighting left in him.

He lands next to Aragorn who looks up at him with a brilliant smile. He is just as filthy as the rest of his men, but his smile does wonders for his appearance. Sam lets out a heavy sigh of relief, they did it. 

A great sound of ground cracking wipes the smile off of both their faces.

“Frodo,” Gandolf breathes. His eyes are sad as he looks at the now erupting volcano.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aragorn closes his eyes in grief. A great sacrifice was made this day.

“Frodo,” Sam starts, his voice surprising Aragorn into reopening his eyes. “What does he look like?” 

A hope, a dangerous, fragile hope grows within Aragorn’s chest as he looks at Sam. 

“Like us!” Pippin and Merry shout in unison as they rush to the front of the group. “‘Cept they won’t have the armor,” says Pippin. “Or the helmets--but they’ll have the elven cloaks!” Shouts Merry as he gestures to his green cloak.

Sam just nods before he’s shooting off into the air and racing towards Mount Doom. Aragorn watches as Sam becomes a small spec on the horizon before disappearing from sight. He feels the heavyweight of Gandolf’s hand on his shoulder, though he does not look away. 

He will give witness to this, be it their sacrifice, or their triumph--he will not turn away. From the side of his eyes, he can see the others, all those who remain of the fellowship line up alongside him. Together they had set off on this quest, and together they will see it to its very end. Tears creep into his eyes, never before had he a more worthy group to call his brothers as these brave few who stand with him now. 

They flinch collectively as a group as the top of Mount Doom explodes. Lava rains down and Aragorn’s heart sinks. Sam is fast, faster than anything Aragorn has seen before--but not even he could hope to find two small hobbits in such a large area. 

They stand in silence, hearts leaden down with sorrow as they wait and hope for at least their angel’s return. Legolas is the first to spot something along the horizon with his elf eyes, Aragorn soon after. 

He is grateful that if nothing more it will be one less loss for the day. Slowly, far slower than he had flown off Sam approaches. No doubt worn out from keeping the Nazgul at bay for so long.

But the closer he gets the more obvious his flight seems unstable more than can be explained away by exhaustion alone. 

“He’s carrying something--two somethings,” Legolas announces, wonder in his voice. Aragorn strains his eyes as hard as he can trying to see for himself, unwilling to wait for Sam to be closer. It is a silly thing for him to do, but men often do silly things when they are given just the slightest amount of hope to hold onto.

Gimli lets out a holler, a great whoop of joy as Sam and the two bundles in his arms are close enough to see clearly. But the two hobbits in his arms aren’t moving, they show no sign of life, and Aragorn’s heart sinks.

Sam lands heavily on the ground nearby falling to his knees as his legs give out. They rush to his side, but his hold on the two hobbits remains firm. With a care not fitting someone as clearly exhausted as he is, Sam sets the two bundles down on the ground. He holds up a hand motioning the group back.

“Unless you’ve got some cool healing magic, or are a doctor you need to stay back,” When no one speaks up he nods tiredly to himself. “Of course it wouldn’t be that easy, would it.” 

He rummages through hidden pouches on his person pulling out a number of devices that Aragorn would have no hope in deciphering their purpose beyond that of being healer’s tools. 

Aragorn watches transfixed as the shake in Sam’s hand disappears the moment he starts working to save their friends’ lives. A skilled and experienced healer, perhaps Aragorn was too hasty in proclaiming him an angel of death. No death dealer would take care such as he does with the two hobbits.

He works in silence, his face tense with concentration. No one scarcely dares breath until he finally sits back on his knees letting out a sigh.

“I think--I think they’ll be okay.” Pippin and Merry rush over and knock Sam onto his back with their enthusiasm as they wrap their arms around his neck. Sam lets out an ‘oof’ of air as his back hits the ground, his wings now much smaller and not taking the brunt of his weight. 

Aragorn doesn’t have it in him to berate the little ones, he has half a mind to join in himself. It is a good day where they do not have to suffer the loss of another of their fellowship. He allows the hobbits a moment of celebration before he steps in to pull them away.

Sam lies there on his back, dust, sweat, and grime covering him head to toe. His eye coverings lay discarded in the dirt beside his head--this is the first Aragorn has seen his eyes. 

At first, they appear to be obsidian pools they are so dark, but as Aragorn leans over to offer the man a hand up he can see swirls of color within. Dark like wet earth, and so full of kindness--goodness. 

A most unique person this Sam is. Everything about him is so different from anything Aragorn has ever seen and yet the kindness in the man’s heart? An echo of his own.

A man worth knowing, he can only hope to be given the opportunity.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The trip back to the castle takes far longer than his flight from it. For one? He’s too damn tired to fly. He might just crash into the ground at this point so he’s stuck walking. Though it is not alone.

On either side of him stands Aragorn and the _elf?_ named Legos? Legos Lost? Sam isn’t too sure, but it was something like that. 

Anyway, he’s got Lego guy and Aragorn on either side subtly keeping him from falling down. Sam is more than man enough to admit when he needs help, but it’s nice that he didn’t even have to ask. 

They’re good people. Strange people from three or four different races? Species? 

You know what? He doesn’t even care to think about the semantics of it right now. All he wants to do is find somewhere comfortable and soft to lay down and not move for the next week. 

Eventually, they make it to the castle and from the ground? Damn is it an impressive sight to see. Seems to go up for miles and miles. Which is exactly what it feels like when they make it to the first set of stairs. 

“Oh, I am not climbing all these stairs,” Sam starts. “You are all out of your mind if you think I’m doing that. You guys really don’t have elevators, even a low tech one?” Blank stares are his only response.

Of course.

“Screw this, we’re taking a short cut,” Sam looks at the group, much smaller now with just the four small ones, another less small but very thick one, the wizard dude, Aragon and Lego guy. That’s do-able. What? Three, four trips max? He can do that. 

As it turns out, he could not in fact do that.

He only manages two trips with the two sets of little guys before he’s falling over on himself. A pretty woman is pushing him down into a bed and shushing him when he tries to explain he has to get the others. She doesn’t even pretend to listen to him just pushes him back down against the sheets when he tries to get up.

She’s a lot stronger than she looks--he can appreciate that in a woman. He also really appreciates the washcloth she brings over to clean his face. She hums a song in a language he doesn’t understand as she wipes his face and all too soon he finds himself lulled to sleep by her sweet song.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once the rest of the fellowship had made it to the palace they came to find the five who had gone ahead already fast asleep. Sam and Frodo were taken to the healers’ rooms, Merry and Pippin had fallen asleep pressed close together in a chair. As if even in their sleep they were afraid to be parted.

The other Sam?

Éowyn had seen to him herself. Though she could not have known of the man’s deeds before his arrival she treated him as she would any war wary soldier. He lays across a bed, still fully clothed in his armor but sound asleep. With his face lax in sleep, he seems more real. 

More human. 

The otherworldliness of his wings and armor is now noticeably separate from him as a person. Aragorn is no great smith like those of dwarven blood, but he doubts that any suit forged in Middle Earth could compare to that which Sam wears. Upon close inspection, the armor suit he wears is not made of leather, nor any cloth Aragorn has seen. The quality of the stitching alone would rival the greatest of elven tailors.

Gandolf had said the man was no _Ainur_ , but Sam cannot be of this world. His wings that defy all logic, the way in which he speaks, and the very color of his skin mark him as not of this world. 

“Where are you from?” He asks the sleeping man. There is no answer, not that he expected one. Perhaps Sam will deem Aragorn worthy of telling his tale once he awakens. 

A sound and flash of light from behind Aragorn has him turning, his already sword drawn. What his eyes see cannot possibly exist. A shimmering, golden portal made of light comes into being. It grows larger and larger by the second until it is big enough for Aragorn to walk through should he chose it.

On the other side is a man, dressed in flowing robes. A wizard--though he could not be more different from Gandolf. His hair is cut short in a way that would speak of shame, or great loss but the man’s countenance is that of a prideful man--not one steeped in shame.

“Who are you, wizard?” Aragorn asks, standing between the wizard and Sam’s sleeping form. “Why have you come?”

The wizard blinks in surprise at Aragorn’s words. His attention shifting from Sam to Aragorn as if noticing him for the first time.

“Ah, yes sorry. There seems to have been a bit of a mistake,” his way of speaking is similar to that of Sam, though not the same. “I seemed to have sent my sleeping friend to a world changing battle--just not the one I meant to. Do you mind if I step on through? I would like to take a look at him.”

“You would call him friend?” The wizard stops for a moment as if the question would garner deeper thought. 

“I would. There are not many I would call a friend, but Sam Wilson is one of them.” Aragorn lowers his blade and steps back. He doubts he could have done much to prevent the wizard, nor anyone else from doing anything with the sorry state he’s in. 

“Thank you,” The wizard says as he steps through the portal. He offers Aragorn a full bow that he returns with the incline of his head. “My name is Stephen Strange, though I am not a wizard. We prefer the term sorcerer, though it is much of the same I have no doubt.” 

The man turns around giving the surroundings a good look for the first time. His eyebrows raise up his head when he takes in the sight of the erupting Mount Doom and the cataclysmic damage done by the earthquake and lava at the ring’s destruction.

The not-wizard turns back around and gives Aragorn the same scrutiny he had given their surroundings. He nods to himself then moves to look down at Sam who is still sleeping oblivious to his audience. 

“Perhaps it was not that I sent him to the wrong place, but instead that he was needed here more than we had need of him,” The man shrugs to himself. “Magic can be like that sometimes. You can only bend a rule so far before the universe finds a way to set it right.”

His words are writhe with meaning years beyond anything Aragorn, even with his unusually long life, could hope to understand. The man doesn’t seem to expect his words to be understood, in fact, he has an aura around him that speaks of deep familiarity of being misunderstood. 

Reaching into his robes he pulls out a small device and casts off a beam of white light from one side. It is far brighter than any lantern, the likes of which could only come from magic. He shines the light on Sam who shies away from its brightness with an unintelligible grumble before his eyes shoot open in surprise.

“Strange!” He tries to sit up but the other man was ready for the reaction and just pushes him back against the bed. “You would not believe the day I’ve had man. I fought like, seven or either flying monsters and there was this giant flaming hell eye that exploded--”

“Is he concussed?” The not-wizard--Strange--asks Aragorn as if Sam had not spoken. 

“Man, he doesn’t know what a concussion is. This is like the middle ages or something--”

“Middle Earth,” Aragorn corrects, getting a nod from Sam.

“See! They don’t have tech here. Just scary ass monsters and magic. But not like your magic.” Sam rubs and the back of his neck. “Anyway, he’s not going to know what a concussion is. They’re still using herbs and prayers over here. But no, I am not concussed.

“Tell him Aragorn,” Sam says waving his hand towards Mount Doom. “Tell him about the big evil eye, and the army of monsters.”

“What he speaks of is true,” Aragorn agrees with his head tilted to the side. “Though he knows not of our words, nor I of his--the eye of Sauron, his armies of orcs, goblins, and the Nazgul. Without his help, I do not think we would have lived to see sunset.” Aragorn turns to face Sam.

“It if was indeed a mistake that brought you to us, or the unseen hand of fate, we are in your debt.” Aragorn bows lower than his station should permit, but he does not care. “Whatever assistance we can provide, you have but ask.”

“How about a week vacation where I don’t have to leave your softest bed?” Sam says it like a joke. 

“I do not know what a vacation is, but you are welcome here. You may sleep in the king’s bed should you desire it. I owe you that much at the very least if for nothing more than bringing Frodo back to us alive. I dared not hope for his return.”

Sam tries to sit up straight, Strange not interfering this time, lets him. The playful smile falls off his face. He reaches out a hand to touch Aragorn’s knee. His hand is warm, and his touch careful.

“I don’t need anything for that. It’s my job. I’m _pararescue_ , I know you don’t know what that means--but above all else, I help people. I save them if I can. It’s just who I am, I don’t need anything for it. Seeing the little guys wake up happy and healthy will be all the reward I could ask for.”

“You are a humble man,” Aragorn begins but Sam waves him off with a laugh.

“No, not humble. Just honest. Trust me, I’ll be the first to brag about how awesome I am at something.”

“Not that this isn’t touching,” Strange interrupts. “But the portals can only stay open for so long.”

Aragorn’s face falls at Strange’s words. He had hoped. . .it is of no consequence. Sam is not of this world, surely he is needed elsewhere. It would be foolish to think he would stay for any time longer than he has to.

Oddly enough, Sam does not seem happy by the prospect of returning home either. The easy smile on his face falling away. 

“I could just come back later if you two have things to talk about,” Strange says. Both pairs of their eyes snapping to look at him in surprise. Strange looks almost offended. “What? Did you really think this was a one time opportunity? I am a busy man and have things to do, but it isn’t like I can’t come back in a week.” He gestures around him.

“I think you’ve more than earned a week’s vacation,” Strange grimaces. “Besides, you don’t really want to be around Rogers now that Barnes is back, he’s being disgustingly emotional again.” 

Sam lets out a bark of laughter at that. Aragorn doesn’t know why he’s laughing but the sound is infectious and so he ends up joining in. Perhaps he, too, is exhausted to the point of delirium if he is laughing like this. 

Or perhaps is in relief that he will get the chance to know Sam. To learn what kind of man he is when he is not saving hobbits and slaying Nazgul. Aragorn thinks that he must be an extraordinary man to be humble of such things where another man would boast. 

He is grateful to get the chance to find out.


End file.
